


what happens after

by lukegodbaby



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Biting, Knife Play, M/M, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Trans Male Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 08:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17864096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lukegodbaby/pseuds/lukegodbaby
Summary: after a day of fucking around with Patrick, you go to Belch to have yourself taken care of





	what happens after

**Author's Note:**

> this is a trans guy reader. pronouns he/him

After everything was said and done, Patrick wasn’t interested.

 

That is to say, after he was finished fucking you, he was finished in general. There wasn’t anything in it for him to do anything else except go for round four and demand the best out of you.

 

But you were only human, and you had to put your foot down from time to time.

 

You borrowed the Hockstetters’ phone while Patrick fucked around in the garage, barechested, like that would entice you into going again, like you weren’t already so sore from the entire afternoon that it took all your energy to stand up straight.

 

You wished, not for the first time that day, that his parents had been around. Even though they didn’t like you, even though they seemed to be afraid of their son, even though it didn’t matter to Patrick what they saw or heard… even though.

 

You told yourself a lot of things when it came to Patrick: first, that it mattered when adults were around; second, that he recognized when he pushed too hard; third, that one day he would go too far, and he would know, and he would step down.

 

You were very good at lying to yourself when it came to your time with him.

 

You dialed Belch’s number. It rang a few times, then picked up.

 

“Hello, Huggins residence,” said a warm lady’s voice on the other end.

 

You smiled.

 

“Hey, Missus Huggins,” you said.

 

“Is that who I think it is?” she asked. You could hear her smiling.

 

“Sure is.”

 

“Where’ve you been, honey? I haven’t seen you in more than a week.”

 

You sighed just a little bit, rolling your neck. Patrick sure did a number on it. Well, on all of you, but you had to take this thing one bit at a time.

 

“Oh, you know. Busy.”

 

“Busy looking for trouble,” she replied.

 

You cracked up.

 

“Yeah, you know me. Listen, is Reggie there?” you asked.

 

Once, you asked for Belch. That had gone over okay, but she made it known that under no circumstances would she call her only boy that nickname. So you learned to go with Reggie. It was weird, but it worked.

 

“Oh, yes, he’s right here. Will I see you tonight?”

 

“If that’s all right with you, ma’am.”

 

“Of _course_ it’s all right with me, honey. Here’s Reggie.”

 

She handed the phone to Belch.

 

“What’s up?” he asked.

 

“Uh, just finished up with Patrick.”

 

“Well, shit. How bad’d he do you?”

 

“Not as bad as last time. Could you pick me up?”

 

“You still there?”

 

You smiled. Because Momma Huggins didn’t know that things got… weird when you fucked Patrick — or that you fucked Patrick at all, or her son, for that matter — you often explained away the bruises and cuts to her by saying you’d gotten in a fight. She believed it, but just to back up that excuse, Belch had to be vague on the phone with you if she was right there.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Be there soon.”

 

Ten minutes later, you climbed gingerly into the Trans Am.

 

“Jesus,” said Belch.

 

He reached out to touch your cheek, which was rapidly swelling and would probably bruise tomorrow.

 

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine.”

 

He grunted in response. You knew him well enough to know that grunt meant that no, it wasn’t fine, but he wasn’t going to say anything about it right now.

 

As he drove you to his house, you talked quietly.

 

“Okay, so he got your face. Anything else?”

 

“Bit my leg pretty bad, and he cut up my chest a little bit.”

 

“Damn it. Okay. How you doin’ downstairs?”

 

You blushed, and then rolled your eyes at yourself. Yesterday, Henry watched while you and Vic fucked around, and today, Patrick fucked you and held a knife to your throat, but today, you blushed when one of your boys asked if you were sore below the belt. Sometimes, you surprised yourself with how sensitive you could still be.

 

Of course, what you had going on down there was different than all your boys, and for you, there was a little shame in it. Not being the way you were, but having to talk about it.

 

“Sore but not especially.”

 

“Good.”

 

When you got to his house, his mom had already made a plate up for you.

 

“Oh, man,” you groaned. “Fried chicken.”

 

“Mm hm,” she said, wiping her hands off on her apron.

 

She was such a classic mom sometimes that it took your breath away and you wished she was yours. Well, you always wished she was yours. Not just when she made your favorite foods.

 

“I had a feeling I’d be seeing you soon enough, so I was ready,” she continued.

 

“You really didn’t have to, ma’am.”

 

“No, I didn’t,” she agreed. “But I wanted to.”

 

You ate in silence for a minute before she put her fork down.

 

“Reggie says you got in another fight.”

 

You looked at Belch. His poker face was as solid as ever.

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“And the boy had a whole foot on you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Patrick was a giant compared to you.

 

She pursed her lips. “You really have a nose for trouble, you know that?”

 

“Everybody’s got their talents,” you said.

 

She laughed.

 

“I wish yours didn’t have you beat up at my dinner table so much. You should come by more often. Not just when you lose a fight.”

 

You smiled.

 

“You never really lose a fight if you can still walk away.”

 

She rolled her eyes.

 

“Oh, you boys. One day you’ll realize that you’re not bulletproof.”

 

You grinned. Boys.

 

She was one of the few adults who understood that you weren’t just a tomboy. She was one of the few adults you trusted enough to say, _I’m not a girl_.

 

And she listened. And she still loved you.

 

Which was more than you could say for your own parents.

 

It’s not that they stopped loving you. They just loved a version of you that wasn’t really who you were. They loved their tomboy daughter, and refused to acknowledge that actually, they had a son.

 

You didn’t get along with them anymore. But you told yourself you could make do. You had the boys. You had Mrs. Huggins. You had a few places you could sleep and ways to get food and people to sleep with and you didn’t need much more than that.

 

“Well, ma’am, I’ll tell you when it happens.”

 

“Mm hm. You get cleaned up, now.”

 

You finished eating and she left you and Belch alone. Once in his room, Belch tossed you his Zeppelin shirt and a pair of his boxers.

 

“You need anything else?” he asked.

 

“Nah, baby. I’m good.”

 

He smiled. “Go for it.”

 

You took a shower, as uncomfortable as they got after a day with Patrick. The cuts and bites he left on your skin stung under the water and soap and only subsided once you’d stepped out and started drying off. You put on Belch’s shirt, which was about two sizes too big for you, but soft with how he loved it, and smelling so much like him that you thought about stealing it from him and never, ever returning it. You slipped into his boxers right as he tapped on the door.

 

“Come in,” you said.

 

He did, carrying the small first aid kit that they kept under the kitchen sink. He set it down and then hauled you up on the counter like you were a little kid.

 

“I can do that myself, you know,” you said.

 

But you didn’t mind, not really. It was just one of the many things he did to make you feel cared for. But it was important that he could feel like he was caring for you, too, so you let him. You let him carry you and lift you and patch you up and make sure you ate. All because he loved it. All because he cared.

 

He shrugged. Then he opened the kit and took out a tube of antibiotic ointment and a few pads of gauze.

 

“Show me,” he said.

 

You tugged the neck of the shirt down to show him the shallow cut, about three inches long, just below your collarbone.

 

He sighed, then got to work.

 

“Maybe I should tell Patrick to lay off sometimes,” he said.

 

“Oh, yeah, that’d go well. You say, _stop beating him up_ , and he says _let me find a bigger knife_.”

 

“Maybe if he learned that going too far takes you out of the game…” he started, and then stopped, rolling his eyes.

 

You both knew that there was no out of the game for Patrick. Not really. If you worked hard enough, you could convince him that you were unwilling to play, and that if he tried anyway, it wouldn’t be any fun. But that was about it.

 

“Yeah,” you hummed.

 

He finished tending to your chest, then went looking for other spots. He found the bite mark on your inner thigh after a little poking and hearing you hiss as he prodded it.

 

“Jesus,” he said. “I didn’t think it would be this deep.”

 

“D’you think it’ll scar?”

 

“Maybe not,” he said, though you both knew it probably would. You had evidence of Patrick’s activities all over your body, in various states of healing, and this would just be another exhibit in the Museum of Fucked Up Sex you’d had.

 

He taped a pad of gauze over the bite, then reached to pull you off of the counter.

 

“Huh uh. One more thing,” you said.

 

His eyes grew darker, thinking you had one more wound to tend to. You smiled, reassuring him.

 

“Can I get a kiss?” you asked.

 

He smiled.

 

“’Course.”

 

He kissed you, all soft and strong, wrapping his big arms around you. You smiled into the kiss, glad that you could end this day with something gentle.

 

“Let’s go to bed,” he said, leading you by the hand into his room.

 

Momma Huggins didn’t have much, but she worked hard enough that her giant of a son didn’t have to sleep on a twin mattress. There was more than enough room for both of you.

 

You flopped down on the bed, watching as he got undressed. He hummed something that sounded like Metallica, but he was pretty tone-deaf, so you couldn’t be sure.

 

When he was finished, in a shirt and boxers just like you, he turned off the light and got into bed with you. He held out his arms and you curled yourself into them, warm and happy.

 

“Feel better?” he asked.

 

“Always do, with you,” you said.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr at god--baby.tumblr.com


End file.
